


gladiolus amicitia is occasionally not a morning person;

by boldly (techburst)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, cats are dicks, in which gladio and ignis get to have a semi-normal life, mornings are the worst, no betas we die like men, that life just includes unconventional pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 19:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13038165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/techburst/pseuds/boldly
Summary: reason number one:cats are assholesor:why did we ever think adoptin' wild animals as pets was a fuckin' good idea





	gladiolus amicitia is occasionally not a morning person;

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Soozaphone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soozaphone/gifts).



> clearly, when you spend a year building this whole ridiculously elaborate, domestic setting with a friend fic is bound to happen. right? right. that's my story and i'm sticking to it.

Mornings are ill-favored on the best of days; as frequently as Gladio finds himself awake at ungod( s )ly hours, both for his own sake and the sake of routine, the added shrill, obnoxious shriek of a certain nerd's alarm only adds to the ire, and if he occasionally ( sporadically, _honest_ ) tries to turn the damned thing off before it has a chance to startle him out of bed and onto the floor ( shut up, it's happened ) he hardly thinks anyone can blame him. 

( … And if it means stealing a few more moments of warmth and closeness with aforementioned nerd, well. That's just a bonus, ain't it? ) 

Now. Alarms are one thing when they come in conventional form — the sort of thing dismissed by the tap of a finger or swipe across a phone's screen — but they're another thing entirely when fate gets creative and thinks to add, say, the presence of one ( 1 ) particularly insistent _asshole cat._

She only takes up space in their bed when Gladio very obviously does not want her there ( which … is more often than not, but damn, does she pick up on it quick ), more frequently when he and Ignis have barely had any time to spend alone together — and he's missed him, damn it — and when she takes up space? _She takes up space._ Even more than what might be considered permissible for a not-quite-fully-grown coeurl. 

It's just past five ( probably, anyway, his body clock is never wrong ), and during the night these two grown men have drifted into the sort of tangled mess that Gladio loves the most; Ignis mostly on his side, an arm tucked beneath his head with the much larger form of the king's shield curled at his back, one arm between him and the mattress at the shoulders and the other draped almost lazily over a hip, nose buried in the ridiculously soft hair at the nape of his neck. He comes to consciousness slowly, almost like the easy stretch of a cat in a sunbeam, and with the delivery of that rather _apt_ analogy there comes the introduction of a third bedmate. Slowly creeping her way up from the foot of the bed, one carefully-placed paw at a time. 

Gladio groans, muffled. "Iggy. Your cat." Three little words that are little more than a jumble of syllables against sleep-warm skin. ( Meanwhile, Stupeo is somewhere in the vicinity of Ignis' knees, paused and perched with such _presence_ that he can feel her staring at him. _Him_ , not _them._ Little shit. ) 

"What of her?" comes a just-as-sleep-muddled reply, accompanied by a light sort of full-body stretch that finds him pressed a bit more snugly against the older's chest. 

"She's doin' it again." 

There's a lull in which Ignis feels the tug of consciousness a bit more ardently — a bit more insistently, as though the day's agenda has suddenly gained both sentience and corporeal form and is now pulling him in a handful of different directions all at once — and he does fight it, if quarter-heartedly, if only to stay in that cocoon of familiar warmth for just a tiny bit longer. "You'll have to be more specific," he finally murmurs into the lightening darkness, even if he might have had an inkling of what _'it'_ could be. " _'It'_ could be any number of things. Breathing, for example. She does that quite often." 

( _Now look here, you absolute little shit._ ) 

If Ignis had been expecting _anything_ other than a grumble-growl-groan and a reprimand in the form of a nip to a bare shoulder, surely the sting left against pale skin is enough to find him feeling moderately chastised. ( But who are we kidding, here; Ignis Scientia and _chastise_ only belong in the same sentence if he's on the giving end. No ifs, ands or buts about it. ) 

"Starin'. She's _starin'_ , smartass." _Better to be a smartass than a dumbass,_ Gladio hears his father's voice echo somewhere in the muddled middleground of his mind, and he wills it away. Shoo, Clarus. You have absolutely no business in _this_ bed at _this_ hour, words of wisdom imparted or not. 

Ignis, meanwhile, still seems in no real hurry to see to the feline that has resumed her slow crawl up the bed. A whuffling breath outward fans over the bend of an elbow as she effectively pushes the whole of her head against his forearm, and he chuckles. "Perhaps she's hungry," he offers helpfully, reaching with his opposite hand to scratch at her chin in a way that leaves her purring happily. ( Any outside observer watching up to this point might assume her to be the pleasant household pet instead of the daemon-spawn menace she actually is. 

Don't let her fool you. ) 

Gladio isn't in any _real_ hurry to follow up on that oh-so-helpful offering; for one, _that is not his cat_ and his own claim to pet parenthood is currently curled up outside in a perfectly well-behaved pile of behemoth, and for two … he's just the slightest bit preoccupied with following up on that previous nip with a line of soft kisses over the younger's nape. Soft, unhurried, the sort of thing they can both afford when no alarms have gone and signaled the start of a long, _long_ day. 

"Perhaps you should feed her," the shield finally gives over, just as helpfully, and in a poor mimicry of Ignis' careful diction. ( Let it be known that it is never, never too early to mock. Or pun. Or act in any way that could be later described as facetious or downright _cheeky._ ) "'Cause if she starts tryin' to eat my face, I'm feedin' her to Jr." Yes, Gladio. Because feeding a not-quite-fully-grown coeurl to a fully-grown behemoth is going to end up being the best idea you've ever had. Honestly. 

There's another languid stretch in which the lean body against his chest presses infinitesimally closer, a hum for the attention to his neck and a discernible _snort_ for everything that has just come out of his mouth. "You will do no such thing." Given over as easily and _mildly_ as if it meant _you absolutely will not go out in the cold without a coat_ and not _you absolutely will not make an hors d'oeuvre out of my cat._ "I _would_ get up … though it appears that I am _entrapped_." 

( Is that a complaint? ) 

"Hm." _Hm_ like he's considering letting the other man up — or _hm_ like he intends to keep him there indefinitely is anyone's guess ( you get three, and the first two don't count ), but there is a definitive grin against the curve of a shoulder as teeth graze over skin, soft and simple and still unhurried. "Ain't exactly findin' a good enough reason to let you up — _ow, damn it_ , you little shit —"

Except that would be one ( 1 ) not-quite-fully-grown coeurl having understood the mention of being fed, and one ( 1 ) not-quite-fully-grown coeurl taking it upon herself to make sure that happens. Soon. 

Which means nipping at the fingers that have been trailing over the length of Ignis' forearm. Sharply, and repeatedly. ( Stupeo has yet to learn the phrase _do not bite the hand that feeds_ , though in her defense, that isn't the one she's just nibbled; _that_ one is currently seeking to hide a growing grin and, honestly, doing a rather piss-poor job of it. ) 

The bitten hand-that-does-not-feed makes to swat in the general direction of its offender — is swatted back in return and Ignis is so close to full-on _laughter_ that his body shakes from holding it in. Gladio is _not amused_ , and while no current occupant of the bed can _see_ the scowl turning his features sharply downward, it's crystal clear in the sound of his voice. "M'glad you think this is funny." 

"I do." 

" _Eat my entire ass_ , Iggy." 

"I hardly think that qualifies as a well-balanced breakfast." 

There's a moment of silence that stretches so long and so _thickly_ that Ignis almost dares to think it's too early in the morning to even attempt his poor excuse for humor — at least until it breaks entirely with the rich sound of the other's laughter pressed between his shoulder blades, and the bed itself trembles. ( It also goes without saying that it is _always_ too early to attempt his poor excuse for humor, being that it consists mostly of puns no one outside their bedroom appreciates, but that is, of course, neither here nor there. ) 

Gladio rolls over onto his back with an audible exhale, pauses for maybe a beat longer and then continues to roll himself up into a sitting position. "Fine, fine, I'm gettin' up. I'll start the coffee —" Ah, and here is a perfectly-executed, pointed look thrown over his shoulder. "If you _feed your damn cat._ " 

( _Yes, dear._ )

**Author's Note:**

> yes, the cat's name is stupeo.  
> yes, the behemoth's name is junior for precisely the reason i'm sure you're all assuming.  
> no, i'm not even a little bit sorry.


End file.
